


smear

by shutupnerd



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Bruising, Choking, Drabble, F/M, Mentions of Sex, Rarepair, Toxic Relationship, but it sure is a thing, grammar? idk her, it’s not a good thing, izuru and sonia have a thing, not super cathartic, remnant of despair, sdr2 - Freeform, vent - Freeform, vent fic, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupnerd/pseuds/shutupnerd
Summary: izuru is in bed next to sonia again.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Sonia Nevermind
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

his shirt is on the floor, his tie is wrapped around the doorknob. his pants are balled up in the corner of the room. he’s in bed only wearing boxers. the thermostat reads 79 degrees; izuru has the covers bunched around him anyway. he always has run cold. 

she’s asleep next to him—silk nightgown. The covers pool at her waist. she’s primly curled up, looking so innocent. not as if her hands were wrapped around his throat thirty-four minutes ago.

She bruised his windpipe.

he turns onto his back, staring at a gilded ceiling.  Blood has made it up there, too. Blood is everywhere. His cheek is scraped—she wiped it with an alcohol wipe (made sure it stung) but didn’t cover it, just let the blood drip,

Drip,

Drip.

so his pillowcase had pink dots. there was a lipstick print on the cut. it wasn’t quite scabbed over yet, still leaking.

he lays his head down on it anyway. the little bit of a sting reminds him he’s alive. he should close his eyes. he should. sonia is asleep right now. the fistful of his hair she has a stranglehold on won’t be pulled for hours. he should sleep.

but his eyes are open. they are dry. no tears have fallen, no tears will fall (try as she might). 

he is bored.

she is good at what she does. so is he. there is no love in it. there is pleasure—some physical version of it for him; both in body and mind for her. it does not last for izuru. but at least sonia is happily willing to return what she coaxes from him.

but there is no  love.  love is a foreign concept to him. unattainable. even here he is the second choice. tanaka has proven unattainable, so she settles for izuru—something that only _seems_ unattainable.

there are scars everywhere.

he does not feel loved. he feels used. because he is being used. 

service over self.

hands on his chest.

_ “pretty. you’re pretty when you’re being punished.” _

he does not know what he has done to deserve punishment. perhaps he doesn’t deserve it. 

he’ll take it anyway.

it’s better than being alone. everything is better than being alone, after sitting in solitary confinement for seven months.

they are close but do not quite touch. her breath is hot on his skin. there are still traces of lipstick on her mouth; she left most of it on him. it’s on his mouth, his cheeks, his neck. one innocent little print on his forehead. (a kiss goodnight.) 

she will let him wash it off in the morning, after she admires her handiwork in the sunlight. she doesn’t bite like junko. there is more artistry in the fleeting marks sonia leaves. they befit a princess.

they shame him. well, if he felt shame. maybe he does, under all that boredom. she’s good at sneaking under the boredom. stealing what she wants  but _always with permission, izuru. i’m not going to take what you aren’t going to give me, my dearest. here, let me help you._

he closes his eyes.

at least he was useful. 


	2. dawn

He wakes up at night sometimes. Nobody is operating on him, and there are no IV lines in his arm, but she has her head resting on his chest. As cold as he always tends to be, it’s still summer and she runs warm. The blankets have been shoved off by her. 

His hands are still tied above his head—but he doesn’t mind. It’s not as if immobility is foreign. He could break the handcuffs easily enough if he really wanted to. 

He doesn’t want to do much of anything. 

They dig into his skin, sure to leave cuts when she wakes up and unlocks him.

There are more lipstick prints.

_Let me take care of you, Izuru darling. You don’t have to do anything except be good. Can you do that for me?_

He knows, logically, that nobody is watching. Nobody has seen him like this. Except her, who put him there and intends to keep it that way. Servants stay out of her rooms (which he has only left once this past week) and Sonia refuses to entertain other guests while he visits. But there is still the strange feeling of...shame, perhaps? That always sits with him whenever someone manages to get him tied down. (Hope’s Peak. Junko. Now, Sonia has taken her turn at it.)

She locked him into them exactly seven hours and thirteen minutes ago.

She opens her eyes; he closes his. When she sits up and unlocks him, he does not open them. He wants to see what she’ll do. 

The bedside lamp clicks on. She takes his arm and lifts it to the light, inspecting the damage. They hurt more, now that he’s free of the handcuffs. He’s not free of anything else. 

“I know you’re awake, love.”

“I would think you were observant enough to notice.” 

He opens his eyes. Her face isn’t far from his. Her hands reach down from his, the handcuffs clicking on the nightstand. She cradles his face, her expression soft save the utter madness in her eyes. He would push back. He should. By all rights, he should. But he pulls her down next to him instead, her hair splaying out on his chest. 

“We’ll fix you up in a little while.”

That’s a lie, and they both know it. She has no interest in him recovering. Much like how he has no interest in much of anything. Perhaps that’s why he took her proposition—she was a challenge, a legitimate one.

Who says you have to be her pet? You could be mine.

Shared. Passed back and forth between two blondes. Neither of them were very good at sharing, but they were managing to do it well enough in his case. He lost out in both situations— _ leave Hope’s Peak. Come with me. _

_ Be my playtoy. Don’t restrict yourself to just Junko.  _

_ Don’t lose yourself to only one kind of pain. You can hurt me, too.  _

Junko had been surprisingly welcome to it. Given how fiendishly possessive she had been of him in the past, it had been...unexpected. 

But they now bounce him back and forth in some strange game of ping-pong.

“You should sleep,” she continues, tracing along his surgical scars with a fingertip. “Dark circles are unbecoming, you know. Well, actually...”

She sits him up. Dim early morning light is beginning to shine through the curtains. 

There’s a hairbrush on the nightstand. Mother-of-pearl inlay. Cool gilded handle. It fits her hand perfectly as she closes her palm around it. She grabs a portion of his hair and begins brushing at it, tangles being (surprisingly gently) coaxed out.

“Junko is coming today, you know.”

He didn’t know. 

“I had your clothes cleaned after you fell asleep. They’re on the chair.”

Folded and pressed. As they always are. As often as they bloody each other or end up in her bed (and wherever else she deems appropriate), his clothes are always well taken care of.

They’re about the only thing she takes care of, when it comes to him. His wrists are covered in scrapes and bruises—so is his neck. There are scratches down his chest and back. Bruises on the inside of his thighs. 

There are always bruises. They just change depending on who’s leaving them. She tilts his neck back as she brushes, theearly sunrise casting rays of light onto them. 

“Hold still,” she hums, a hairpin stuck between her lips. He is always still. Before long, sections are being methodically brushed out and clipped back into three parts. 

He’s seen pictures of her before despair—she used to wear a braid. That’s what she begins now, sectioning off a small piece of hair. He’s sure something elaborate is in the works. Sonia (this version of her, anyway) is nothing if not showy.

She ties ribbon into it, reaches forward and gives him a small kiss on the cheek (where the scrape is.).

“I’m going to miss you when you leave.”

Maybe he’ll miss her, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> uh. yeah. :) here you go. do with this as you will


End file.
